As the sun shines into the master bedroom, the interior is bright and bold. Harry squints to see the alarm clock on his nightstand.
“7:03? It’s Christmas morning, for Pete’s sake. Why can’t I ever sleep in? If it’s not the kids, it’s Max. (Max pushes the door open and enters the room, jumping up on the bed.) Speak of the devil. Susan, are you going to let this beast get away with this? Susan?”
Harry looks to the other side of the bed, but it is without his wife. Max makes himself at home and lies belly up as Harry rubs the pooches’ tummy.
“I bet you would like to go outside, wouldn’t you?” Harry asked Max.
“WOOF!” is the reply.
“Okay, big guy, let’s proceed to the backyard post-haste, shall we?” Harry asked.
Max leaps from the bed and is out the door in a flash. Harry dons a pair of sweats and throws on a ball cap as he slips on a pair of slippers and begins his trek down the stairs to the kitchen. As Harry walks through the house, the reality of the previous night sets in once again.
“I thought maybe I was just dreaming the whole thing, but no, there are 70 dead people in my house. I feel like that kid in that movie… I see dead people.”
Harry lets Max out to do his morning business and then grabs the orange juice from the fridge. As he pours himself a glass, a little boy comes up behind him and pulls on his sweatshirt.